That One Marching Band Romance: Movement One

It Doesn't Always Make Lemonade

Danny:

I stared at him, waiting for him to respond, but he just sat there, staring at me.

"Jackson. Say something,"

"I need some air,"

"No! Jackson stay, please," I watched him stand up and he walked out of the room quickly.

"He'll come back. He just needs time to process sweetheart,"

I proceeded to drum my fingers on the rails of the hospital bed and after two hours, I knew he wasn't going to come back. I don't want to cry over him. I want to cry for myself and my cancer filled body. If he can't handle it, then he's not worth it. It's not like he's the one dying. I picked up my phone and called him.

"Hey! It's Jackson. You know what to do," his voicemail spoke.

"Hey Jackson, it's me. Please come back and talk to me. I need you here. Call me back," I hung up and dropped my phone on the bed.

I woke up the next morning to another IV in my arm and a red liquid dripping into my arm.

"They started you on chemo this morning," Mom whispered and I gave her a small smile.

"Did he come back?" My eyes lit up, hopeful.

"No sweetheart. He didn't," Mom placed her hand softly on mine.

I looked down, defeated, "Oh."

"He may need more time to process. It's a lot."

When those words left my mom's mouth, I couldn't control my sadness from forming into anger, "He needs time to process! No! He doesn't get time to process! I need him here to support me! I'm the one dying!"

"You're not going to die Daniella! Don't say that!" she sobbed and I bit my bottom lip.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I just can't believe he left. It's just so unexpected."

"I know sweetie," she held my hand and I stared at the red bag as it became emptier.

After four hours of chemo, I was injected with a dye and sent through a MRI, CT, and PET scan. The results came out the same and they told us that the chemo is the correct choice.

A week later, I was released from the hospital and told to recover at home.

"Hey! It's Jackson. You know what to do," I hung up and pressed my head against the window. We arrived at home and I called him again.

"Hey! It's Jackson. You know what to---" I hung up and sat down on the couch.

"We need to tell your band director and coaches, Daniella," I nodded and she pulled on my new socks. I pulled off my beanie and looked at it.

"My hair is starting to fall out," I whispered and she frowned.

"They said that shaving your head would made it less hard to handle,"

"Okay," she moved me outside and we shaved all my hair off.

"Feel better?" I looked in the mirror and nodded. I mean I don't feel better one bit, but she needed to hear that I'm okay, otherwise she'd worry more than she already is.

I stared at the dark circles under my eyes and my slimmer face. The chemo makes it impossible to keep any food down, so I eat my weight in crackers and chicken broth, until it comes back up again.

It's been three weeks since Jackson left and I don't even know where we stand in all this.

"Hey! It's Jackson. You know what to do," I got his voicemail again and I walked out of the bathroom, before pulling my blanket tighter around my shoulders.